For The Love Of The Game

Last Sunday we went to Oldest's college to visit.

He was tutoring another student in Calculous II while working on his laundry when we got there so we told him to just meet us at the BBQ place down the street when he was done.

I swear to you I had to do a double take when he came in.  I completely didn't recognize him despite the fact he'd been home 2 weeks before. Between his time spent in the gym and his freshly grown facial hair he looks like a grown man now. After dinner we headed back to the dorm so he could get ready for his basketball game, which is what we really had come to see.

When he was little he loved basketball.  Being tall for his age, and also older in his class (he's got a November birthday so he was nearly six by the time he started kindergarten) he naturally excelled at it.  The husband coached two years of recreational league when they were little, two teams, different nights, it was a LOT of basketball, but it was great for them.

He played in middle school, and also on a travel team for a bit.  In high school he was on the Freshman JV team, and Sophomore year made the Varsity team, but that's where it stopped.  The high school coach killed his love for the game. And it wasn't just him, it was nearly the entire team, every year.  More and more kids dropped out until eventually, by his Senior year, there was not a single Senior on the Varsity team. For reference, the head coach is currently being disciplined for his comments about "being sick and tired of a certain player not being able to hear him". The player is deaf. How he's still employed is beyond most parents, but that's not what this is about.

Senior year Oldest played on the rec team again with nearly all of his friends.  It was wild, sweaty, aggressive, and awesome.  They had ridiculous amounts of fun, while the referees couldn't figure out why all these kids weren't on the High School team. They were all good players, and their love of the game was palpable. Over the summer he played a bit here and there on the courts around town.  There's a court down the street from the dorm and he played there a bit. So when the intercollegiate teams were forming and the first team was full, he made his own team.

He. Made. His. Own. Team.

We sat and watched them play. We were the only parents there.  Some clearly excelled, some clearly loved the comradery. They are Engineers, not ballers. They lose a lot, but Sunday they pulled out a win, no doubt from bringing in a ringer, a friend from Oldest's high school, who happened to be visiting unannounced from a nearby College.  Apparently students from every College in the city can be part of the intercollegiate teams, so provided he brings his own shorts and sneakers, he can play for the rest of the season if he'd like.

They played like man sized versions of the little kids they once were. Bigger court, higher jump shots, and louder squeaky sneakers on the highly polished Maplewood floor, but with the same love of the game.

All it takes is one coach, one teacher, one adult to ruin a kid forever.  To steal their passion, drive, love of anything and everything.  OR, it can take one kid, who refuses to give up on something that makes him whole, to find ten other kids to share that drive with, that passion, that love of something, and everything.

He's done an amazing job at becoming an adult.  He's actively searching for grants to pay for college, forwards me pertinent emails for scheduling trips to/from home, is looking into summer sessions abroad, and taking care of his basics like a pro.  As proud as I am of him for the most of his adult choices, this, letting go like a kid again and leaving it on the court, is one of my favorite choices. Which is why we traveled 90 minutes to watch 30 minutes of missed free throws, traveling, bad foul calls, horrendous scorekeeping, and man-sized recreational league gaming.

And why I'd do it again in a heartbeat.